Extremely personal.
“Yes?” I say after answering.
“We’ve managed to make contact with the Pirate.”
I feel the blood in my veins surge.
The Pirate. Much like my own moniker, the Shark, an apt descriptor. He’s well-known in certain wealthy circles, much to their misfortune—literally.
My own relationship with him, such as it is, is far more complicated. At some point, I discovered we seemed to be after the same thing: revenge.
It took me a while to connect the dots enough to learn that our targets—specifically one of them—were the same people.
“Has he agreed to meet?”
“He has.”
I’m rarely surprised by anything, but this one makes the cut. The Pirate has managed to stay anonymous for obvious reasons. Stealing from the people he’s targeted is a definite way to get a far more deadly target on his own back.
Which means he’s good at what he does.
“He’ll be in Monte Carlo for tonight only. He said he would call you personally with a time and place to meet.”
Cocky son of a bitch.
Usually, I’m the one making the rules. Then again, I’m usually dealing with people who have at least something to lose. I suspect that part of the Pirate’s success lies in the fact that he has nothing to lose…and just as much thirst for vengeance as I do.
Two sharks in the sea.
“Was there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
I hang up. Almost as soon as I do, it rings again. There’s no ID on the screen, and I can’t help but smile. I have no idea how he does it, but I’m officially impressed.
“The Pirate, I presume,” I answer in English since I’m still not sure what his native tongue is. The reports I’ve heard claim he usually operates in English, but there have been sprinklings of Spanish, French, and even crude Russian mixed in, all depending on his target.
“You presume correctly.” His voice sounds younger than I expected, mid-twenties perhaps. I suppose in his chosen line of work, the agility of youth is an advantage. His English is perfect, but with a vague hint of an accent that I can’t quite place.
“Usually, I’m the one deciding when and where,” I say.
“And usually I don’t bother with a phone call before making my introductions. That would ruin the surprise.” He laughs at this little joke of his. When people “meet” the Pirate, it’s because he’s in the process of robbing them blind.
“I suppose we’re both making exceptions for one another,” I say in a dry tone.
“In my case, quite the exception. The only reason I’ve agreed to meet is that I’m just as curious about you as I suspect you are about me.”
I’m not stupid enough to admit to anything.
He chuckles on the other end. “I know you have a hot date tonight, and I’m nothing if not a romantic. I’ll meet you half an hour before Sloane Alexander is set to make an appearance. At the same restaurant…and I’ll take a bottle of the Château Haut-Brodeur,” he says before hanging up.
My grip on the phone tightens. He’s pronounced the name of the wine better than Sloane did this morning. The fact that he knows exactly what bottle we drank means he’s been in Monte Carlo much longer than “tonight only.”
I’m not unsettled by the fact that he knows so much about my day. If he wasn’t able to collect information about people without them knowing, he’d be out of business by now—or dead.
He has his areas of expertise.
And I have mine.
If I don’t get what I want by the time I’m done with him tonight, I’ll be more than happy to introduce him to my own set of professional skills.
Which I suspect he already knows about.
This should be interesting.
* * *
I’m sitting at the table in the finest restaurant La Mer has to offer—one of the finest in all of Monte Carlo, in fact. The adrenaline running through my veins is surprising. It’s rare that another man can evoke this much excitement in me. It only occurs rarely, right at the moment I make the final kill. Figuratively or literally.
I never have my back to any room I’m in, but my intuition tells me that my first guest of the evening won’t be making an entrance through the front of the restaurant. Thus, I’m not surprised to see a man slip through one of the cleverly disguised exits toward the kitchens.
When he sees that I’ve predicted his unorthodox entrance and I’m already seated facing him, a grin hitches his mouth. His face matches his voice: youthful, cocky, carefree. All, no doubt, very attractive to the opposite sex, especially under a certain age. Sure enough, at least a few heads of second (or third) wives turn as he makes his way toward me. He has dark hair and eyes, and a lean but muscular build filling his suit so perfectly that it must be hand-tailored.
The tables here are all set far enough apart from one another to avoid overhearing nearby conversations. Multi-million-euro deals are made in this restaurant on a regular basis. Privacy is key.
“Well, this is a relief,” he says, falling into the chair opposite me with nonchalant ease. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be as attractive in person as you are in your photos.”
I don’t so much as crack a smile. He can play this game his way; I’ll play it mine.
“Why did you agree to meet?”
“What, no wine first?” He hints.
I stare at him for a moment, then make a small gesture to one of the waiters. Within half a minute, the bottle is brought over. The two of us stare at one another as it’s uncorked and poured for me to taste. One quick hard glance up to the sommelier, and he simply pours a glass for each of us instead.
The man across from me takes a long, savoring sip, closing his eyes as he lingers over it.
“She does have remarkable taste, Magnus. I think she might just be a keeper,” he says, opening his eyes to grin at me.
I don’t take that obvious bait.
He gives me an assessing look, then falls back into his seat. “I think the question isn’t why I agreed to meet, but why you asked in the first place.”
“You seem to know all about me, so why not tell me,” I say with a thin smile.
One side of his mouth curls up. “You want to know why so many of my targets are the same as yours.”
I give nothing more than an almost imperceptible nod of the head.
He takes another sip, inspecting the glass in his hands as he swallows. When he brings his gaze back to me, all hints of humor are gone.
“Because they all, in one way or another, have dealings with my father—the man I eventually plan on killing.” He raises one eyebrow my way. “The same man I suspect you want to kill as well.”
Chapter Thirteen
Magnus
Richard Coleman.
I’m well-practiced enough to give away nothing, even when he mentions the name, a name I’m quite familiar with.
“So I was right then,” he says with that cocky grin on his face. On any other man, it would have been long gone by now.
He takes a sip of his wine as he considers me from across the table. “I suppose there’s no point in keeping the truth from you.”
I wait, watching him set the glass down and straighten up in his chair.
“I know that my father killed yours because I was there when it happened.”
Once again, he’s managed to surprise me. But I’m the grandson of Aloin LaCour, the man who taught me that a poker face is the most powerful weapon in any man’s arsenal.
“The problem is…he also killed my mother.”
My eyebrows rise at this bit of information, mostly as an acknowledgment. When Richard’s wife and son disappeared, presumably in a plane crash over the Atlantic, I suspected foul play even then. Mostly, because I knew how good he was at covering up murder, considering how long it took for my father’s body to wash up ashore.
When the Pirate started making the circuit, I knew it had to be someone close to Rich
ard, also with the same agenda that I had. I never would have guessed it was his supposedly long-dead son.
“I guess that leaves us at an impasse, no?”
“I don’t see it that way,” I say, giving him a level gaze.
He sighs a soft laugh. “Do you honestly think I’d let you get away with the deed that is rightfully mine?”
“I think you’d have no choice.”
“Even with all you know about me?”
“Some boy playing pirate is no match for me.”
“This boy playing pirate has taken down men almost as powerful as you.”
“The operative word being ‘almost,’” I say, still with my eyes firmly trained on his. “Which means you also know what separates me from those men.”
His jaw hardens, the first tell I’ve seen in the man so far. Admirable.
“So, I assume the matter is settled?” I say, mostly as a formality.
He doesn’t answer; he simply considers me for a long moment. “Why haven’t you killed him yet?”
“I have my reasons.”
“I think you have a list, and you’re simply working your way up to my father.” He smiles as if hinting for me to agree with him.
My only reaction is to narrow my gaze as a hint for him to continue.
He chuckles and sips his wine before going on, now with a serious expression. “You’ve been paying attention to my targets, so you already know my motivation. Slowly destroy my father little by little, targeting everyone he works with until he has nothing left to give but his own life—the same life he robbed my mother of.
“But I’ve been paying attention to you as well, and you operate just as methodologically as I do. That deal in Louisiana? The two biggest investors who ended up with that worthless land were men who laundered money partially with my father’s help.”
He grins before continuing.
“I’m sure they thought they were pulling one over on you by operating under the guise of shell corporations,” he laughs softly, but with dark eyes glued to mine. “When the predator becomes the prey…”
I take a leisurely sip of wine. “If there’s a point to these musings, I certainly hope you plan on getting too it soon. I have a date, as you well know.”
He laughs. “Ah yes, the lovely Miss Sloane Alexander. I wonder what it is she’s after? Her timing is interesting, no? Right on the heels of poor Fabian’s untimely demise.”
He’s managed to pique my interest, but I don’t show it. Of course, the coincidence isn’t lost on me. It’s the only reason I’ve moved her to my hotel. The question is, what does the Pirate know that I don’t.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m all ears,” I say in a sardonic voice.
“I can tell you what I know about your date for the evening, and you leave my father for me to deal with.”
“Whatever I need to learn about Sloane Alexander, I’ll learn, if I haven’t already. More importantly, I’ll get it straight from her lips—in one way or another.”
“Why not get it straight from mine? Granted, it wouldn’t be as enjoyable. But then you wouldn’t have to mix business with pleasure. It would be a waste to multitask with someone so,” he eyes the wine in front of him, “delectable. If she’s this good at selecting wine, just think of what other palatable qualities she brings to the table.”
“It would be wise for you to reverse course right now before you find yourself headed down a path you’ll regret.”
His lips broaden into a smile in an attempt to irritate me.
“As for your father,” I say, changing the topic, “I would think you’d be pleased with my interest in handling him myself. Among your many exploits, I don’t recall murder being one of them.”
That wipes the smile off his face. “There are worse things than death, as many of my victims have discovered.”
“But death is very satisfying all the same, and usually warranted.”
“Right,” he muses. “I suppose at this point, we’ll never discover the body of Heinz Boettcher.”
“If the rumors are true, I doubt his family would have wanted an open casket at his funeral anyway.” I’m dancing around the suspicion that he’s so blatantly flung before me. I’m not stupid enough to admit to anything.
Heinz Boettcher was the hired assassin who killed my mother. It took some…persuasion to get the name from certain individuals. Once I had it, he moved further to the top of the list that the Pirate is correct in assuming I’ve created. And yes, I am saving his father, along with one other, for last.
Monsieur Boettcher’s remains are still lying somewhere in the forest near the border of Germany and Luxembourg. When I left him, he had one deep stab wound to the gut, one of the most painfully slow ways to go. From there, I allowed nature to take its course, leaving a feast for the scavenging creatures.
“I may not be as well-practiced as some men when it comes to taking out my vengeance by lethal means,” the Pirate continues. “But what I lack in experience, I make up for with motivation.”
“I also have motivation—and experience.”
“You also have a missing piece to the puzzle that is Sloane Alexander.”
The fact that he keeps bringing her up must mean that he has some bit of information that he knows I don’t. I have a wealth of resources when it comes to learning what I need to about any and all things. But even I have my limits. Just as I have an advantage when it comes to murder over my tablemate, he has an advantage when it comes to getting information.
“We’re in Monte Carlo. How about a bet?”
“I don’t gamble without knowing the odds,” I say with a wry smile.
“Make it a deal then,” he says with a smirk. “If you appreciate the information I give you about Sloane Alexander, you leave my father for me to deal with.”
I consider him for a moment, sipping my wine to ponder that offer. As insatiable as my desire is to personally handle my business, there is something enticingly poetic about a father being murdered at the hands of his own son.
“Tell me what you know,” I say, noncommittally.
He stares at me for a moment, no doubt wondering if it’s worth showing his hand.
“Jan Vorster.”
Well played, Pirate.
“Go on.”
The subtle smile on his lips tells me he knows he has my attention. “That’s who she met with prior to booking a flight directly to Monte Carlo—on a one-way ticket. And we all know whose favorite henchman Monsieur Vorster is.”
Gabriel Fouché, the man at the very top of my list—right next to the Pirate’s father. Gabriel is the man who ordered the hit on my mother.
“Exactly,” he says, reading my mind.
I give nothing away in my expression. “The question is, how do you know this, and what do you know about that meeting? A meeting even my own sources weren’t aware of—yet.”
“Don’t go too hard on Jaques for failing to pick up on that little tidbit. The problem is, you’ve been focused on Sloane when you should have been focusing on her brother. Theodore Alexander is a rare specimen. A brain like a computer and the susceptibility of a puppet. He would be a nice asset to my team, which is how he fell on my radar in the first place. You’ll be happy to know it was because he managed to steal almost ten million dollars from Gabriel Fouché.”
I raise one eyebrow, showing mild interest in that fact. Inside, my head is spinning with this information. I’m learning more about Sloane Alexander from this one conversation than anything Jaques has obtained.
“The details are irrelevant to you, I’m sure. Suffice it to say that a friend of his works at one of Gabriel Fouché’s many microchip companies. He was the one who actually performed the dirty work, using a program that Theodore created. After being caught, both of them are, interestingly enough, still not behind bars. But Theo’s big sister is here in Monte Carlo courting the infamous Magnus Reinhardt.”
Now, it makes sense. It’s no wonder Sloane’s
brother didn’t raise any suspicion for Jaques. He never even worked directly for Gabriel, which would have been a major red flag had I known.
And now I do.
“So, what is Sloane after?”
The Pirate shrugs, then gives me a wicked grin. “That you will have to get straight from her lips.”
I suppose that would have been too much to ask for.
“The question is, have I met my part of the deal?”
Chapter Fourteen
Sloane
“Just the right mix of sophistication, class, and sex appeal,” I say as I look at myself in the mirror. The latter is something I’d never normally resort to but, when in Monte Carlo…
The second shop I went to today was far more accommodating. This Pucci wrap-dress is a bit flashier than I’d normally wear, but the colors and style suit me. In fact, it makes me rethink my normally conservative bent toward neutrals and basic cuts in clothing.
I walk over to pick up the invitation from Magnus. I realize that I have no idea where this restaurant is. Is it even in this hotel?
Only one way to find out.
I sigh and pick up the phone, pressing the one for Front Desk again. Sure enough, I get Neville on the other end.
“Bonsoir, Madame Alexander, how can I be of service?”
“First of all, it’s Mademoiselle,” I say for some reason. I get the formality and the just in case default to “Madame,” but I am, in fact, still very single, and still only twenty-nine.
“Of course, Mademoiselle Alexander,” he says graciously. “How can I be of service?”
“The restaurant, where I’m meeting Mag—Monsieur Reinhardt, can you tell me how to get there?”
“I will be right up to escort you.”
“I don’t need an escort; simple directions will do.”
“It would be easier if I—”
“No, no, I think I can manage on my own.”
The Monte Carlo Shark: An International Legacies Romance Page 7
